- disbelief leaves a bitter taste to the mouth that already knows the taste of blood; no, no, no is the word continuously repeated in his head. the body in his arms is like a skeleton, frail and ready to wither away at the tiniest breath. Guts doesn’t remember the last time he shed tears for anything: how could he when it had always been a battle after battle after battle after battle and tears were always someone else’s business, someone else’s problem. now they burn his eyes like liquid fire. Their white hawk shivers like a child, the touch of his hand like a feather-light caress. The hand falls. The voices of the companions rise in panic, in fear because fear is a constant presence now; fear for the end of the world, fear for the only life they have. The torturer laughs behind his window. Guts makes no noise as he stands up, face hidden in shadows. Griffith takes a deep breath, a rugged breath like someone knocking on the doors of Hell. The tips of his tortured fingers twitch, pale lips move in a mockery of words but words are dead for this hawk, nothing more than silence remaining.
souls never meeting
- she knows he’s watching and she can’t look up. The hand between her own trembling fingers is small (had Griffith’s hands always been this small?), the skin dry and withered, not a patch of the snow-white skin their angel had before. She knows he’s watching, knows the stare of his cold blue eyes by heart; even now when it’s dulled, the light dimmed. This withered husk is no Griffith, is not a saviour of any kind. She cries because there isn’t anything to do and she’s tired, she’s so very tired to be the one to hold it all together. To still hold the memory of the night Guts left and Griffith stayed on his knees in the snow close to her. To know that at the end, the one she wanted to see her heart the most can’t do so. Even when he falls over her, the gurgling from his mouth like the sound of the dying, she breaths deep and holds him, wondering if there is a way out of this for any of them. If she will ever see the blinding light of Griffith shine through the cold of his blue, blue eyes. The body under her hands is thin like a twig, so easy to be snapped apart with enough strength so she holds him like she would hold a child. Griffith, she thinks and holds back a sob. Griffith, she says but he can't answer.
the sky is made of bodies, the air made of screams of pain
the ground is blood, the air made of heavy breathing
(it was you, it was only you, out of all of them it was only ever you who soared as high as I you shackle yourself to the ground but your wings were larger than mine)
the hawk with his wings clipped opens his mouth to speak but the only words heard are in his head (I sacrifice, I sacrifice, I sacrifice). in his cocoon, he is safe. someone yells his name but that is a thing of the past. I will ascend.
the world breaks, is rebuilt, he is rebuilt with hatred and horrible, horrible love, mutated and transformed, his wings stretching far apart and only death and silence remaining in the pale light of his eyes.
the sky is made of bodies
the ground is red the air is heavy with death